The Defendants, page 7
“It wasn’t Thaddeus who sued,” one of the minor clerks from the clerk’s office replied. “It was Ermeline Ransom, who is being represented by Thaddeus. She’s the real plaintiff, not Thaddeus.”
“What’s the allegation?” a school administrator asked. He was in town to visit with the superintendent of schools for Hickam County, something about a pregnant class president.
“Thaddeus claims Victor carved his name in the girl’s chest!”
“What?”
“Come again?”
The lesser clerk dabbed a paper napkin at the corners of her mouth. “The complaint alleges that Victor carved his name in Ermeline’s breast and then inked it in.”
“Is it permanent?” Rich Tatinger asked. It had been a slow morning in the shoe industry. At last, something—some bit of gossip—had piqued his interest. This was sizing up to be good.
“Jeez, wonder what Betty Anne Harrow’s thinking?”
“Never mind what his wife’s thinking. What in the hell was he thinking?”
Attorney Bud Leinager banged inside—late from court—and motioned a visitor to slide around in Bud’s booth. Bud waited while the man moved his plate and iced tea, then lowered his bulk in beside him. “I just read the entire complaint, front to back. It’s outrageous!” he announced in his inherited voice, booming and piercing. “Thaddeus Murfee better hope to hell his own legal malpractice insurance is paid up.”
“You Vic’s lawyer?” someone asked Bud.
“Not yet. Probably won’t be. I have a conflict of interest.” Bud would never admit it would be Bill Johannson III who would catch this gold ring. In order to keep face, Bud would beg off with a claimed conflict of interest, just to make people think that, while he had been asked to intervene, the ethics of law prevented him. He made a long face and scowled at the inquisitive looks around him. Victor Harrow clearly needed his keen help and steel-trap legal mind, but legal ethics held him at bay. He wasn’t happy about it one damn bit either; he let everyone within earshot know.
“What’s the lawsuit after, Bud?”
“Ten million dollars,” Bud answered after he quickly let Cece know he would have the roast hen, with new potatoes and creamed spinach. Coffee, bring the pot, but hold the cream, doctor’s orders. “Weight,” he explained to his audience and patted his sizeable girth.
“Ten million dollars and attorney’s fees of one million.”
“Damn it!” George Bingham cried. George was the owner of H&M Furniture, home of “No Tricky Financing.” He remembered, for one, how it felt to be sued. It had happened to him after he had buried his Ping putter in another golfer’s head. The Hickam Press had even sarcastically ranted that George had failed to count the cranium stroke on his scorecard. Bud had defended that case. It had been settled for an undisclosed amount, the court records sealed, but Quentin Erwin, who once again refused to prosecute because it had occurred on private land—the Red Apple Country Club—he knew the amount and let everyone know. George had had to mortgage both his house and the H&M Furniture Store to pay for the pleasure of creasing another golfer’s skull.
“You should know, George,” someone muttered quite loudly, then ducked his head.
Al Petty, owner of the Hickam Press, gravely asked Bud, “What’s the legal theory of the case?”
“Well, there’s several legal theories, Albert,” said Bud, who was slowly stirring two sugars into his steaming coffee. “Count 1 claims there was a breach of a legal duty to provide a social invitee with a safe place to visit.”
“That would mean Ermeline was on Victor’s property?” someone asked.
“It does. Ermeline was alleged to be visiting Victor at the office. The bus.”
Catcalls rang out with some whistling. Someone shouted, “What time of night was that?”
“Actually it was at night,” Bud continued, “if you believe the complaint. Which I don’t. Victor wouldn’t have Ermeline to his office at night. Not in a million years. Happily married, deacon at First Christian, Silver Star—”
“Yeah, we know all that Bud,” the school administrator interrupted. “But what is the allegation?”
“Simple. That she was there at the trailer after ten at night and … Victor drugged her.” This last portion was said almost under his breath as Bud shoved a partial chicken breast in his mouth. He licked his fingers and nodded approvingly. “Just fine, Cece!” he called toward the lunch counter where Cece was busily pouring water for new customers. “Highly recommend the hen, everyone.”
Al Petty stuffed a good pinch of Prince Albert into his pipe. Neither Hickam County nor the City of Orbit had seen fit to outlaw smoking in local restaurants. He who would object to another’s smoke was always soundly booed. It was a free country, and even if someone else’s smoke was blinding you and ruining your meal, by damn, they had the right to smoke. This was Lincoln country, one man-one vote, and all that. He flipped a silver Zippo with a Marine Corps emblem on its case. “So you’ve told us failure to provide safe premises. What other legal theories are alleged?”
“Hell, Al,” Bud said through a mouthful of new potatoes, “why don’t you stop by the clerk’s office and run off a copy. You’re going to make front page news out of this anyway.” Bud stuck up for his friend and sometime-client Victor Harrow, but he was also sounding slightly miffed, knowing that in the Thursday edition of the Press his own name wouldn’t be mentioned because Victor would never hire him for such desirable work. Bud got many of Victor’s contracts and employment disputes to handle, but the big stuff was always just out of reach, much to his utter dejection.
“I already have a copy, Bud,” Al retorted. “I’m just gauging audience reaction here. It will be a novel case for a jury made up of these and other local people.”
Bud didn’t respond but appeared furiously engaged with slicing up the chicken’s opposite breast into bite-size chunks.
“Any pictures attached?”
“To the complaint?” the minor clerk said. “No pictures. Those will probably be seen only by the jury. And then they’ll be sealed.”
“What the hell does her chest look like? Was it her boobs? Or just her chest?”
“Boobs,” Bud suddenly erupted. “Someone is alleged to have engraved her breasts!”
There was a serious moment of reflection at this. Who in their right mind could do such a thing to Ermeline Ransom? This called for some serious debate and much more investigation and answers than what they had so far. Perhaps Thaddeus was right then. Perhaps the case was worth ten million dollars.
“Does Victor have ten million?” Junior Grant wondered out loud. “Could he even pay a huge judgment?”
“Thad was smart,” Bud said, using the shortened version of Thaddeus’ name to indicate there existed an intimacy between him and the young, almost surprisingly aggressive lawyer. “Thad alleged negligence in Count 1, which gets Vic’s insurance company in the game. Now it’s got skin, so there’s insurance money to be tagged, so Vic isn’t hanging out all alone. Thad will want policy limits, not a dime less.”
“Who will Vic hire? Bill Johannson in Polk County?”
Bud chewed thoughtfully. “It’s the insurance company’s call, which lawyer gets hired to defend Vic. But, yeah, probably Johannson.”
“He wins every case he touches.”
“Never has lost here in Hickam County, has he?”
The minor clerk agreed. “Never lost here. So far, anyway.”
“Maybe this is first.”
“But what about Thaddeus? Is he experienced enough for this? Isn’t he still learning how to patty-cake?”
“Pretty much,” Bud opined. “But it doesn’t take a legal genius to win this case—if, and that’s a huge ‘if,’ the facts as alleged are true.”
“Damn.”
“Amen.”
“Can they get the writing removed?
“Dermabrasion,” the school administrator suggested.
“Well sure,” some woman said whose own face had been recently peeled. “But that only gets the derma, the outer layer of skin. If the ink is actually inside the skin, they won’t be able to get it out. Poor thing. Give her twenty million!”
“At least,” Cece said as she rushed by with coffee in one hand and three waters in the other. “At least twenty million for that kind of assault. She works here and she’s a great girl. And she’s got a kid.”
“Is her ex still coming around? Is that why she was out at Vic’s? Romancing?”
“It was purely business,” Bud said.
“Oh sure, like she was hiring Vic to build a new freeway for her. bullcrap.”
At that moment Sheriff Charlie Altiman and two deputies entered. All eyes followed him and his crew as they waited for a table to be cleared. Once they were seated, pandemonium erupted. Everyone wanted to know, would Victor Harrow be prosecuted? Had he been arrested? Would Quentin Erwin, Jr. file criminal charges? Was there any truth to all this? Had the sheriff gone to the premises and retrieved any evidence? Was there anyone else there when this allegedly occurred? Had Victor given a statement? Where was Victor right now? He usually joined the crowd for lunch. But not today.
When the entire clamor died down, Sheriff Altiman held up a hand. “There will be a press conference at noon tomorrow, courthouse steps. Until then there’s nothing more I can say.”
Groans from the crowd. Publisher Al Petty pulled out his iPhone and entered a reminder on his calendar. He was relieved; the sheriff had wisely called the press conference in time for the results of his investigation to make it into the Thursday paper. Smart move. But that’s why he had been elected to five four-year terms. Smart, indeed.
10
Erwin Farms controlled the Quarter Horse competition in the Midwest. Twenty-five years before, Ed Erwin—District Attorney Quentin Erwin, Jr.’s father—had purchased a perfectly proportioned colt, the offspring of the Kingston Ranch’s foundation sire Old Musket. The colt, Captain Jones, had continued Old Musket’s grand line of Quarter Horses—many of whom had been champions in the annals of the American Quarter Horse Association over the years since. While Quarter Horses were not only well-suited for western riding and cattle work, many race tracks offered Quarter Horses a wide assortment of pari-mutuel horse racing with purses in the millions. A few—not many—of Erwin Farm’s Quarter Horses had also been trained to compete in dressage where horse and rider were expected to perform from memory a series of predetermined movements. Erwin Farms boasted a dressage arena under roof of standard size, which by rule measures twenty by forty meters or (66 by 131 feet).
Saturday after Thaddeus filed the complaint, a certain late-twenties rider was working a horse named Sister Andromeda in the dressage arena. She was taking Sister Andromeda through the complex series of maneuvers they might face should they ever compete. For Ilene Crayton, the rider, competition was far from her mind as she was deeply involved with the raising of her daughter, Eleanor. For now, riding was a hobby, although a hobby much-loved, and in a way, a carrying-on of a Crayton family tradition. Ilene was a single parent; Dr. Bill Crayton had been instantly killed when kicked in the head by one of their own Quarter Horses three years earlier. Ilene, who was a philosophy graduate from Bennington, suddenly found herself head of household and without any marketable skills as the Help Wanted ads weren’t exactly falling all over themselves looking for philosophers. So she enrolled in several online training schools and became trained as a computer programmer—the last thing anyone who knew her might have expected. “Simple,” she said. “They pay eighty thousand a year and you can work from home.” Thanks to Dr. Crayton’s substantial life insurance policy, Ilene and Eleanor had been able to remain in the family home, a small horse farm five miles east of Orbit. The horses, however, had been sold off following the tragedy. There were just too many painful memories there. Lately, though, Ilene had been showing up at Quentin Erwin, Jr.’s spread, helping him clean stalls and drive the tractor and manure spreader, in exchange for dressage time with some of the smarter, competitive horses. While Ilene thus spent some Saturday mornings, Eleanor hung out with her grandmother and grandfather on Bill’s side, both of them physicians as well.
Thaddeus had never met Ilene Crayton though he had heard the story of Bill’s premature death. So when he parked and walked in through the barn, he had no idea who was working Sister Andromeda in the dressage arena as he passed the door. Moreover, the woman—girl?—was wearing the standard headgear, so he wouldn’t have been able to make her out anyway.
Thaddeus quickly passed by and stopped at stall three where his own Quarter Horse, Uncle Do-gooder, was waiting for him. It was almost as if Uncle Do-gooder knew it was Saturday and that Thaddeus would turn up any minute, loaded down with carrots and apples for the mounts. Thaddeus held out a carrot, and the roan horse nuzzled it from his hand. As the horse munched and blinked at a fly, Thaddeus looked back toward the dressage arena. The girl—woman?—sat a horse very nicely. And she seemed to have a damn fine figure too, he imagined, although he’d only had a glance at the pretty, trim legs and the loose denim work shirt, which was amply filled out. He thought he would like to know her name. He wondered if she wrote stories. That … was too much to ask for.
Thaddeus found Quentin at the north end of the barn, cleaning hay clotted with horse manure out of stall seven. “So who’s the gal?” he absently asked, just generally making conversation.
Quentin, wearing OshKosh coveralls and Wellington boots, stopped and removed his Cardinals baseball cap. He wiped his forehead with the cap. “That? Ilene Crayton. Bill’s widow.”
“Never met her.”
“Well, you should. Very classy.”
“I’m sure. If she’s horsey, she’s probably just your type.”
“Yeah,” Quentin laughed, “just don’t tell Donna. I like having my genitals intact.”
“Don’t worry—I won’t breathe a word. Is she pretty?”
Quentin ignored the question. “She’s just coming over now and then. Likes to work Sister Andromeda and some of the others. Pure dressage. I never did much get that stuff.”
“Is she pretty?”
“She’s very pretty.”
“Maybe I should meet her. Showmanship—ringmanship, it’s all good.” Thaddeus said. He had done some reading at the AQHA website and others. Maybe at some point he would have horses too, like Quentin. They were a great way to spend the day. And maybe he would get a chance to say hello to this Ilene Crayton.
“I’m dressed for anything. Where do you want me to start?”
Quentin looked Thaddeus up and down. The rookie lawyer was wearing Redwing boots, khakis, and a flannel shirt. “Next time lose the slacks,” Quentin said. “This is horse crap we’re forking around with here,” Quentin laughed. “Tell you what. You take over the pitchfork, and I’ll go fire up the Ford and back the manure spreader in. Then we can clean the stalls and load the spreader, all in one move.”
“Fair enough.”
Quentin handed the pitchfork to Thaddeus who bent at the waist and went right to work. He was glad to have purely physical labor to do for a while. The past week and the tension of the Victor Harrow case, the news media seeking comments from 100 miles around, and the questions from everyone he came in contact with, had worn him out mentally. It was good to clean stalls, good to be around Quentin. Who knew—maybe they would even talk some law, though law was off-limits in the barn. There might be time for that later, when they adjourned to the Red Bird Inn for lunch, like they did most Saturdays when stall cleaning was done.
Two days ago Thaddeus had watched Sheriff Charlie Altiman hold his news conference on the north steps of the courthouse. The news conference was held just across the street from Thaddeus’ office, and Thaddeus had to admit he had cracked his window and listened in to some of what was said.
Charlie had tapped the mic and said, “Testing?” before he launched into what he had to say. “Can you hear me back there?”
“Do you have a statement from Victor Harrow?” the NBC affiliate reporter out of Quincy piped up.
Charlie had lifted a hand. “Let me start with some opening comments. Maybe what I have to say will answer many of your questions. And first, in answer to that question from Marilee Sonigee, No, we don’t have Victor Harrow’s statement. Victor Harrow at this time is represented by Bill Johannson III out of Polk County and Mr. Johannson has instructed Mr. Harrow not to discuss the case with anyone—as you might expect. Now, here’s what we do know.”
Charlie launched into the narrative: Ermeline Ransom coming to him in tears at 7:30 that morning; how they had brought her some black coffee and helped her to settle down; the story of the previous night and meeting Victor at the bus; awakening from a drugged sleep at 4:30 the next morning, disoriented and terrified; not knowing where Victor was; having absolutely no recall of the night before or what she had had to drink; the serious nature of her injuries and the fact that it clearly was an aggravated assault, a Class 2 felony in Illinois, which could get the guilty party up to twenty years in prison; that pictures had been taken and that the district attorney had been consulted no fewer than five times now.
“I already know the answer, Sheriff,” said Al Petty of the Hickam Press, “but I have to ask for my readers. Will any of the photographs be made public to us?”
“You’re absolutely right, Al. You do already know the answer. Next?” Charlie looked out over the small crowd of TV and news reporters, town merchants, a couple city council members, and those holding TV lights and ensuring battery power for the filming.
“What exactly happened here, Sheriff?” someone up front asked.
“I’m getting to that.”
“Will the grand jury consider the evidence?”
“Sorry, you’ll have to ask the DA for that answer.”
“What’s your opinion? Should the DA seek an indictment against Victor Harrow?”
